home and love
by within a sepulchre
Summary: he wants a peaceful homecoming; maybe he'll get just that, or maybe he won't. he has doubts and potential interests, but will they drag him down, or push him forward? harris-centric. au-ish. multi-chap.
1. it's a start

**A/n- **I wrote this months ago, and I decided that I needed to publish it. It might be rocky, because I didn't really feel like editing, but I hope it's okay anyway. Obviously, I'm finicky about this, but reviews would definitely cheer me up. I must thank my Hannah Banana (in the jungle dances) for always being encouraging _and_ everyone else on this archive who has been so cool (Angela, Tash, Alex, Emmy, JayFaye, Nikolette, Ana, Mo, Lisa, Tinsley, and so many more). And, yes, this fiction has flashbacks. Apparently, I have an obsession with them, even though I didn't know it. Anyway. The flashbacks will be signaled by the retro italicized word that says _Flashbacks_. Just like that.

**Disclaimer** to any brands, songs, and-of course-to Lisi's characters. /salute

**Pairing: **I guess we'll see.(;

**Rating: **T.

**home and love**

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Harris found himself in sticky situations too much for his liking, though he supposed it had never really bothered him that much, considering he always got back into them repeatedly.

Of what kind of situations, many wondered, but he was never one to stay in the past nor cower in a corner like a spanked child; Harris Fisher was a big boy, even if he didn't make it through college and dropped out due to utter stupidity. _I'm a bad boy_ had been his unspoken excuse, and he had hard damn proof that everyone would believe that, because how couldn't they? He was Harris Fisher. Reiterated a hundred more times, and he might have finally realized that it meant nothing.

College was a pleasant experience for him, since he couldn't really recall anything that happened, besides the constant downer of bad grades, naughty things on shiny motorcycles, and wet towels. He wasn't sure what the latter even meant.

But as his self-esteem could not spiral any lower, he decided to head down to his good, none bad-asser-y hometown of Westchester, where if the air even dared to frizz the proper ladies neat updo's, they shook their manicured fists at the sky and shot a demonic bird to the Sovereign.

He was always really himself there. There was never any facades for him in Westchester.

.

He hummed to the ancient rock song he forced himself to like, because all the guys had told him he should, since _chicks want the whole package, dude_. But then he realized none of them were sitting next to him in his Mustang, and that there was really no point to suffer through more Journey songs, so he clicked the radio off and reclined dutifully behind the wheel.

He wasn't expecting anything when he got home, seeing as no one even knew that he would be gracing them with his slouchy presence in approximately; he glanced at the neon time on the radio- two hours, though a Taco Bell break would assuredly have to come first. He'd just heard that they had a new burrito out and he was gravelling to try it out.

He began a stoic observation of the silver ring he had slipped on just after leaving his dorm. He had been shoving clothes into his duffel, sweeping the room quickly with a hasty gaze, before a glint of silver hanging on his bed hook captured his attention. The memories it brought were bittersweet- late night car hook-ups, dips in glittering lakes, quick food at Sonic, because they had just wanted to, and the murmured promise of their love "forever."

It would always sadden him to think of his relationship with Skye Hamilton.

_Flashback_

He was late for AP Lit. again. He threw his fresh, eighteen year old self off of his new glossy toy, and swept his mop of dark hair behind his ear.

"Harris!"

His brother Cam jumped out of a bubblegum pink minivan and loped towards him; he tried to stifle his laugh, but just couldn't quite muster the self-control.

"What the hell, Cam?" he snorted, "is Barney in there? Has he gotten his satisfaction with you yet?"

His brother's sweaty face turned down into a scowl, "Derrick had to borrow-whatever-that doesn't matter," he started, "you won't be laughing when I tell mom that you're late again; you knows what happens if you don't make it through your Literature class-"

"Yeah, yeah, Cammie boy, I know," he scoffed and added helplessly, "but who seriously wouldn't let me into college? They should be honored that I even applied."

"Oooh, Mister high-and-mighty, don't let us simple kids stand in your way," he teased, eyes rolling, hands pulling at the bagging in his jeans.

Harris shook his head at his insolence and decided to let it go, ignoring his brother's exclaimed, "Barney has talented hands, ya know?" and strode towards the embellished entrance of the school.

.

"Harris Fisher?" The hoarse, and definitely disgruntled voice of his teacher interrupted his reverie of pretty girls on pretty motorcycles; he flicked his fingers up in the air, not coincidentally letting the others shrink back down, and the middle remain erect. Giggles erupted, and he stifled his smile, while lowering his head and jiggling his pen.

He heard the measured sigh of his teacher, the click of her heels, and then, "Skye Hamilton?"

"Here," the voice was a muted whisper, and even _he _couldn't contain his curiosity.

Reportedly, his friends had been buzzing about the new girl in town and how she was just _so_ hot, and _damnnn what they'd give for some of that, _along with some promiscuous rumors, but the angelic voice couldn't be another give-me-what-I-want-and-I'll-screw-you-to-Mars kind.

Desks distractedly squeaked, as the whole population of the class assessed the poor new girl; even he couldn't resist after a moment of whispers and the scribbling of pens for future note passing.

The teacher was calling attention, so he waited until she turned to the board to blindly fawn over more of Poe's _lyrical _poetry and how _no one could ever match his use of personification or hyperbole_, to check out this Skye for himself.

He first penned his choppy locks of hair back with a pencil, winking at the flushing girl opposite himself, before casually sliding his legs out in the aisle and dramatically flinging his head back. He peeked out of his peripheral vision, skipping over the diffident hopefuls, the shifting jocks, and the artfully arching cheerleaders, before something very pretty caught him.

His hearts rate accelerated; a blush wound a curious way around his cheeks, not accustomed to being let loose; his pencil slipped out of his suddenly sweaty hands and clacked noisily onto his desk. He quickly adjusted his position, like a perfect saint, and matched his teacher's assessing glare with a conspiring look of innocence, before she finally continued the class, motioning towards the portrait of Poe as if he was Jesus himself.

He slid his head onto his desk and exhaled; the new girl wasn't important right now. He needed to concentrate on Edgar and his _alluring style _and _haughty, good looks_. Yeah, before Poe wasted himself in too much vodka and thought of how the world ends, until he couldn't take it. Real chipper, that one.

He shook the wavering image of Skye out of his head and reluctantly took to his work.

.

Delicately drumming his car-callused hands on the glossy overdo of his car, he finished his burrito in one bite and the little thoughts of Skye, he expelled into the chill of the night air. The skies were sparkling here and there with little stars, clouds invading to stream and conceal the virtuous beauty behind them. He almost liked these days, when the stars weren't really out, but were covered by a thick blanket of moisture, because they were actually helpless.

He gave himself credit for being pretty damn deep when he wanted to; he definitely hadn't got that from Skye, though she had always been complicated. She had appeared so simple and pretty and normal, but she really hadn't been. Damn, how he wished for those days sometimes, when he wasn't soaking in hazes and hangovers and bras strewn over his stomach. One day he would let the nostalgia take him for a depressing day or two, but now- he had a mission to mooch off his parents until he figured out what to do with his life.

He couldn't help but grimace into the air at the measly possibilities.

.

Driving into Westchester was easier than he had thought. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, but a clear, pure blue coloring that refreshed his spirit; the air was fresh and the imminent presence of autumn scented the air, sending leaves in tumbling crunches and pubescent teens running with sudden vitality. He saw himself on the corner, slouching against the drugstore's walls, constructing graffiti articulately on the finest marble statues, on the most historic items possible, and on the walls of the salon and country club. He shook his head at how naïve Westchester had been; they had assumed it to be any newcomer, because no true citizen of Westchester would even _dare_ to do such a thing and become an atrocity.

His phone suddenly sang with the screeching cacophony of Aerosmith, a courtesy of his buddies back at college. Maybe he wouldn't miss them so much, after all. A glance at the caller id showed "Cam3"; he grinned at his drunken terms of endearment to his brother and flipped open his phone. (He stuck with flip phones, because he thought iPhones were overrated and the click of hanging up on someone, especially a screeching chick, gave him no more satisfaction then the nice, concluded sound of it flipping close.)

Another example of how deep he was.

"Cammie," he happily greeted into the phone, "what's up, my boy?"

"Are you still in your Lil Wayne phase? You know that guy's no good, right? He's got-like-five baby mamas-"

He laughed, "Calm down; Weezy will always have a place in my heart, but you come first," he pronounced, squinting his eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes looked a bit shadowed today, "so, what are you-"

"You're in Westchester, and you didn't even tell me!" Cam yelled suddenly, a static on the line protesting, seeming to echo Harris's thoughts exactly.

"Damn, bro, cool it; I was just gonna surprise you," he paused, "and how did you know?"

"What? That you were back in town?" Cam scoffed, "no one drives a '67 anymore. haven't you heard that Mustangs are out, dude?"

"I choose not to listen to that kind of shit," he complained, "and you shouldn't either. You shouldn't jock on Charlotte; she's done nothing to you."

"Charlotte, Harris? Really?"

He stared at a passing group of attractive girls, that he estimated to be about fourteen, trot across the street. One stepped out, a very daring one for sure, and did the booty shake, apparently to impress her friends, or humiliate them; he wasn't sure which one.

"Harris!"

"What?" He asked, feeling a bit exasperated.

"Get your ass home, or I'm telling mom right now that you're in town-"

"Nah, nah, Cam, don't do that!" He pleaded, the hopeful image of banging his brother's head into a wall consoling him, "and why are you so mad?"

"Because I could've planned a damn party already, douche!"

"Calling me names won't help; it's not very nice. And Mom didn't raise you like that; oh. Did Barney have a dirty mouth? Because he seemed like the type-"

"Enough, just get home," his brother mumbled; a moment later and "End Call" flashed across his screen.

He chuckled to himself, observing the girls giggling in an united rhythm, limbs splaying across each other in glee.

He hooted out of his window, suddenly remembering doing the same thing a few years back, and how Cam had called him a fucked-up pedo. He grinned.

_Flashback_

Harris barreled out of Literature, thoughts scattered, as his main priority was to get to Spanish II, and kill the conjugations until his teacher was fawning over his undeniable talent. Mouth set in a firm line, he jogged around the corner and slammed into a soft body; he couldn't help thinking as he bent over to help up the blonde that this was another cliché and-really-of course, it was going to happen to him.

He grasped her small, slender hand, pulling her slight weight up easily, and bent down to gather her books, having not even bothered to glance at her, studying instead her structured edition of _The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket_.

"Isn't this one of Poe's novels?" He asked interestingly, scanning the cover, "you can't find this in the library."

"Um, yeah.; I bought it on Amazon," he froze in mid-air at the timid whisper, slowly ascending until his eyes met hers.

"I'm Skye, by the way."

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**A/n- **I hope that this story won't consist mainly of flashbacks. I think that they'll just be thrown in there. This is gonna need a lot of work and suggestions, because I'm hoping this won't be horribly cliched. Reviews would mean a lot. And CC definitely. Plot ideas and even pairings would be great, though I do know what pairing I want.(: Review?

-Livvy


	2. Trouble, Trouble, Trouble, Ohhhhh

**a/n- **Thanks for reviewing the first chapter, everyone. I know it's been forever (10 months since I posted this!), but I wrote this chapter months ago, and figured that I ought to post it. And I don't know if any of you are the least bit interested in this fic anymore, but-hey-I'm updating anyway… I love y'all.

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Harris pulled into the graveled driveway of his home; it was a nice house, with not one menacing board laid down, and painted in a pure white shade with classically green shutters. It was framed by a wraparound porch with bizarre rocking chairs that he had wanted to sell on ebay, because everyone apparently loved wicker, and you could get shitloads of benjamins for just one, but since it had such a family value, Harris had been resigned to let the old things sit and rot and rock crookedly and creakily, their green potential left to fade.

Whatever suited his parents he thought, as he climbed out of his car, crunched across the yard, and crossed the soft, pliant boards of the porch. Boards being soft was definitely not a good sign. And the mildew smell wasn't a good indication of excellent housing health either. This was fantastic. He was going to have to talk about a lot more things than he thought he would have to. His parents needed to get their priorities straight, he thought, hearing The Strokes whirring from the open window above. He glanced at the clear, blue sky and took in a deep breath, the kind of deep inhale that's preparing for calamity, for the inevitable disappointment. The air was cool, not biting, and placed a gentle hand on his beating heart, slowing the finicky rhythm. He nodded to himself, stepping inside with the breath new in his lungs and his pace determined.

_Flashback_

Harris peeled away his gaze from her blue eyes, surprisingly embarrassed and simultaneously confused; he wasn't the type to be befuddled and in knots. She was just a girl, beautiful as she was, but he had seen many beautiful girls, and this one wasn't special. He tried to convince himself of this, as he shuffled his books around in his arms. An awkward silence passed.

"I need to get to class, but I'll see you later, sweet tits," he sent her his usual suggestive glance, watching her timid, blushing face become offended in a flurry of lines and tight lips. She squinted at him in irritation, disappointment flashing across her face. He realized immediately that he has messed up. She wasn't like other girls. Shit, shit, shit, why had he called her a name? Why hadn't he just said bye like a normal person, instead of spitting game that she wasn't into. Shit. He had known she wasn't like the others. He pivoted and walked away without another word, smile fading; he gulped, feeling weird and bad and desperate. He felt like a girl. Was this PMS? Because if girls had to suffer through shit like this, he would give them some street cred.

The rest of the day was hard, school almost deafening, like one of those awful mosquito ringtones some of the idiotic groupies played just because they liked to aggravate the shit out of him; Harris was having problems with the new girl. Her beauty was distracting and unique and off-putting, and was actually affecting him, and he didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.

Walking to his shiny baby, he pushed away thoughts of Skye, and pulled out his keys.

"Hare! Harris! Harrison!" Harris rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"What? What? What?" Cam strode over, hands continually grabbing his jean loops to heft up the denim (Harris thought it might be the time to buy a new pair of jeans).

"I need to talk to you," Cam squinted, all cropped hair and freaky eyes, creating an aura that was apparently appealing to chicks, though Harris thought he was a hardcore loser with loopy genetics. But that was just him.

"'Bout what?" Harris scraped the pad of his thumb across a skull head key chain, acutely annoyed.

"Come onnn, Harry. Mom and Dad are out of town (At a _The Rolling Stone_s concert in actuality; residual hippies complete with too long hair and bad smoking habits), which means we get to part-ay!"

He felt himself cheer up substantially, as he mounted his bike, and cranked it. "Yeah, maybe."

Cam cheered, left in his dust; in the side mirrors, Harris saw Cam beckon wildly, and the infamous pink van opened, Cam's buddies piling out in a gallop. High-fives were exchanged maybe some hugs, as well, though Harris hoped that was just shade from the helmet throwing off his eyesight, because his brother had better be straight or-

Not paying attention to the road, he had neglected to notice a red Sudan approaching. A manly beep from the car sent him skidding; he wished he could say that everything slowed down and that his life flashed before his eyes-cool shit like that, ya know, but it happened a lot quicker than that. His head banged against his helmet's leather and plastic interior as he hit the ground at 15 mph; it was exactly like other falls, except it hurt a helluva lot more.

He threw the helmet off, spitting out blood and a tooth-a pointy tooth. Must be a canine. Huh, never thought that learning anatomy would come in use (except sex ed. That was an exception). He squished his hands against his eyes, wincing in pain at his throbbing wrist. Ah, fuck.

He rolled off of his dented baby, not daring to look at her; he couldn't do it, fuck, if she was damaged, he wasn't sure where his life would go or what the point would even be.

"Harris!" Harris heard Cam's footsteps and several others (damn groupies) trotting across the pavement; _thudthudthud, crunch_, "Dammit, Derrick, that was my foot!," some chortling, bitchslapping noises, and shh's. A car door slammed, and he readied himself. He was going to kill the driver, though- technically, it _was_ his fault; he hadn't been paying attention, and it was the bastard's turn. Not time for logic; if they had ruined his bike, their life was over; he'd destroy them. He groaned and stared at the overcast sky with disgust. Why? His life had been so good too, nothing troubling; well, except for- no, fuck that.

Cammie's green and blue eyes hovered over Harris's face, "Hey, man; you okay?" He waved at him in the universal "get the fuck out of my face" sign, recoiling at the stab in his wrist.

"I think my wrist is broken," Harris rolled his eyes at his life, when loud laughter caught his attention.

Derrick Harrington, infamously annoying with a probable IQ of sixty, guffawed and stepped forward; donning a high-pitched voice that hurt Harris's inner-dog sonar; Derrick questioned, "Does Neville need to go to the hospital wing?" Derrick laughed harder, oblivious to the nervous looks around him.

"I still have my other hand, bitch" Harris stated, eyes catching the glassy, brown ones of Derrick. He gave an apprehensive laugh, looking around, and swallowed when he saw no support. He stepped back into the bulwark of ragged t-shirts and light washed jeans. Eyes darted.

Harris laid there quietly, Cam chattering away with the operator, "Yeah, yeah; I think his wrist is broken, and his face looks a little fuc- um, looks kind of messed-up; yeah, he's conscious," a slight pause ensued and everyone quieted, "No, this isn't a joke. I'm not going anywhere. Yes, M'am. Harris. His name is Harris Fisher," the phone call ended, and Harris let loose a breath, grabbing straggler gravel off the pavement. He knew that he needed to see his offender, but he dreaded it; he needed to cool down.

"Whatchu doing down there, Hare?" Feet shifted.

"Jerking off, obviously."

Nervous laughter roamed through the group, similar to the wave, except in sound, rather than sight.

"Who hit me?"

"Technically, no one hit you. You were the one-"

"Well, who _practically_ hit me then?" Harris retorted, increasingly aggravated.

Harris lifted his head up, as footsteps traveled to his side in harsh stomps.

"Me, sweet tits." Her tone was sharp, and her eyes were blue and livid as she stepped to his side.

Oh, shit no.

Everything ached, and Harris desperately wanted to roll into the grassy ditch twenty feet away and never emerge until everything was all right, but life had always been bullshit so he'd better confront that bullshit life had thrown him now.

"Skye," he stated flatly. She was new, and he was already in hot shit with her. It usually took a few days minimum for that to happen with girls. Well, 50% of the time, anyway.

"Yes?" There was no meekness in her tone, only authority, and he knew he wasn't the only boy here turned on.

"Why did you hit me?"

"I didn't hit you, idiot! You ran out in front of me. I couldn't avoid you without running into that pole," she motioned with fluttery hands to a tall metal streetlight (streetlight? Why did the school even need them? It wasn't like there were any security guards patrolling anyway; they were all watching the game or smoking whatever they could scavenge out of the lost-and-found. Harris swore that Briarwood was one fucked-up school and needed a serious intervention from some rehab people or someone because he was sure that even the damn principal was high when he could get away with it)

Her pretty face was red, and her figure was coiling and thundering into a gangster-esque pose. Shit! Harris was becoming scared that she was going to pop him a good one in a moment.

"Okay, okay, I messed up," he confessed, banging his sore head on the gravel. He turned his lips into the dirt and blew crumbled leaves across the road.

She was quiet and so was everyone else. It was weird but peaceful, just lying there with his brother's blood gang and a gorgeous, enigmatic girl surrounding him. It was unique; it was fun; it was strange how everything was in a blurry light; his head hurt a bit too; man, everything was awesome, mothafuckas-

"How long has he been like this?"

Harris blinked confusedly; why was the sky so blue? Why were the clouds so fluffy? Why did that one look like Jesus? Oh, shit! He could make a fuckload of money out of that by selling it. Everyone loved coincidental Jesus's. How was he gonna get that damn cloud? He looked around for help, but the figures were blunt and wavy, like the wind. They were moving with the wind. He thought of Bob Marley's "Sun Is Shining"; the sun was shining right now, hazy, but bright. Who could help him get the cloud?

"Mom! Mom!" He closed his eyes against the pain that yelling cost him, "help me get this Jesus cloud.. Please!"

There were some loud, raucous voices then; Harris swatted them away, "Mom! Are you there? I swear I'm gonna finish that paper. I promise. But please help me get this cloud! I love you. You look awesome. I didn't mean it when I said that your hair needed a hot oil treatment. And you don't need Botox either," he gasped for breath, dirt in his throat. He felt like shit. Speaking of, he kind of needed to let one loose.

The voices erupted in "Ew's."

"Mom!" He felt his voice turn shrill, and he started crying wet, slow tears, "Mooom!"

"What in the hell is wrong with my brother, dude?"

"Too much pot?"

"Nah, probably the Ecstasy-"

"Hey, I saw him snorting up some glue once!"

"Guys, this has nothing to do with drugs.. He has a concussion."

"What the fuck is that?"

"Derrick, everyone knows what a concussion is."

"Well, if you know so much about it, then what is it?"

"He bumped his head too hard, and he's bruised it so he, like, doesn't know where he is."

"Ohh."

"There's the ambulance!"

"Hey, do you think they have reporters with them? Cause there's one news lady with awesome ti-"

"No, Josh, I honestly have no idea how they would fit a camera crew in the back of an ambulance."

"Don't be a dick, dick."

Harris's tears felt warm and sticky on his face; the innuendos he could play on there were endless, but his face hurt, and he still couldn't stop thinking about the Jesus cloud and his Mom and Skye and Skye's ugly ass Sudan.

Dammit, his life sucked ass.

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**a/n:** I just realized how much cursing is in this fic! Sorry about that. I hope you guys like this chapter. I won't lie when I say I'm not sure where I'm going with this, so if you have any ideas/suggestions, feel free to give 'em. I do know what pairing I want, and I do know that flashbacks are not going to reign this fic. But that might be the only things I DO know.(: Please **review** for me, and make my day! Oh, and there is no OCD here; just Briarwood.

-livvy


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